


Höllenhund

by CorwinOfAmber



Category: Fringe
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorwinOfAmber/pseuds/CorwinOfAmber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bishops have a bad habit of leaving unfinished business for their descendants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was my second, and IMO much better fanfic. A casefic involving Robert Bishop and how the past affects the future, it was inspired by an article I read about Nazi experimentation on dogs in the Second World War.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I don't make any money from writing fanfic. I'm just playing in your sand box. Don't sue me.

Robert Bischoff crouched in the woods behind the small laboratory, took the last puff of his cigarette, tossed the still lit butt to the ground and stamped it out, all the while vowing for what must have been the hundredth time that it would be his last.

He sighed, contemplating what he was about to do. Was it rebellion, or was it indeed murder?

Bischoff loved dogs, always has; people, not as much, and even less so these days. But a good dog will be a loyal companion to the end, unlike the Nazi bastards that comprised his entourage, people who would sell you out at the first whiff of a potential promotion.

Robert had been contacted by the American Office of Strategic Services soon after it was clear which way the wind was blowing in the Fatherland. He had no other choice to join the Party because it was impossible to get ahead otherwise, and his position in the Ministry of Science made it easy for him to secretly relay information on Nazi research to his handlers. The perversions of science he saw there almost daily made him sick to the soul, and it wasn't long before he started making suggestions about where they could most productively sabotage ongoing projects.

His handlers took his suggestions with amusement, assuring him they'd take care of it. Now and again, an improbable accident would unfold during a project somewhere, with the incidents in question chalked up to bad luck or human incompetence. He couldn't say whether it was the work of the OSS, of course, but he liked to think he was making a small difference.

Then the folder on Project Hollenhund appeared on his desk. It was such a stupid concept that he had audibly slapped his forehead, causing everyone working in the office to look up in united puzzlement. The project's intended goal was to devise methods in controlling a pack of dogs through mass hypnosis, so that they may in turn be used as weapons of terror or assassination. Knowing that it would never work in a million years, he approved Ministry funding for the project; and a lot of funding at that. Better the money to be invested in such a foolish endeavour as this, he thought, than in infecting Jewish children with the plague and seeing how long it took for them to die.

Yet despite all this, the soulless bastards somehow succeeded. When pictures of Russian POW's torn apart by packs of Dobermans, Rottweiler's, and even Dachshunds – Dachshunds – started crossing his desk, he excused himself from the office and spent the next ten minutes retching in the bathroom. It was Robert who had originally approved this project, and he was therefore complicit in both the murders of these men and the very perversion of science he had been privately condemning all this time.

That night, he went to Confession for the first time in many years. The elderly priest had listened quietly, then proceeded to absolve him of his sins, adding that of all the confessions he had received from other Nazi members in the past few years, Bischoff's own was almost nothing.

But while he was absolved of his sins, he didn't feel any less redeemed. What would happen when even more people inevitably died as a result of the project he approved? Could he be forgiven again and again for the same sin? God helps those who help themselves; and so too did Robert resolve to take matters into his own hands.

His OSS handlers had supplied him with a pistol, a specially manufactured .22 semi-automatic with an integrated silencer, specifically designed with accuracy and stealth in mind. It hung in a special case he made for the leather jacket he normally wore.

Bischoff sighed and walked purposefully out of the forest toward the lab. The lone guard spotted him immediately, but this far behind the lines, near Berlin, the guard had probably been chosen for this post because of his incompetence; better to put him here than on the front lines. The guard didn't challenge him until he was too close, and then hesitated when Robert didn't respond. Bischoff shot him through the eye at ten paces, the pistol barely making a cough into the night.

After a quick Sign of the Cross, he dragged the body into the shadows. Searching it, he found two grenades, enough to heavily damage and perhaps destroy the premises entirely, and the key to the lab's front door. He walked around to the front entrance and used the key to gain access.

The interior smelled like a combination of a surgical facility and a dog pound. He heard dogs squealing and whimpering in the next room, and he groped the blindly walls until he found the bank of light switches. He flicked on every other one; he needed to see, but wanted to draw as little attention as possible.

In the next room, he found a hybrid surgical and radio lab. Tables with various radio components lined the walls, and down the center were four surgical tables, with trays of instruments standing at their sides. The room at the back was filled with cages housing dogs in varying degrees of health. The dogs in cages along the south wall had clearly been operated on, as they all had heads swathed in bandages, and found themselves in different stages of misery, made evident by intermittent whimpering or whining. The dogs in cages on the north side were so far untouched, and were excited to see the man who had just walked in, barking as if they expected treats.

Robert resisted the urge to start playing with the dogs, not wanting to get attached; attachment would be both futile and dangerous. He moved to the back of the room, where the stairs leading to the basement were found. He groped the wall next to the staircase until he found a switch. The light flickered into life and he continued downstairs, making as little noise as possible.

The basement was empty save for an uncomfortable looking surgical-type chair, equipped with restraints and lights. In the chair was a man. He appeared to be in his mid-30's, bald, and wearing a black turtleneck and khakis. His eyes were closed.

Well, this threw a wrench into his plans, he thought. How could he possibly get the potentially injured man out of the facility without anyone noticing, return and destroy the lab before sunrise?

Robert walked forward cautiously, then grasped the man's wrist to check his pulse. His heartbeat was slow and steady. Now reassured that he was still alive, Robert began to release the clamps that held the man in place.

Then the man's eyes flickered open.

"Hello, Robert," he croaked. "My name is John Mosley. We need to talk."


	2. Chapter 2

Jonathan Adelmann pulled his mail truck into his favourite parking spot at the docks. He didn't drive from stop to stop like his colleagues did; the reason he took this job was in part to pay off his student loans and in part to get some exercise. In the six months he started working he had shed twenty pounds and gained some muscle, but the loans were still far from being repaid.

He walked around to the back, pulled open the hatch and grabbed a full bag of mail, slinging it over his shoulder. He heard a dog yap behind him; he's been a carrier long enough to know that it's not the big dogs that bite, but the little spoiled yappy ones. So he turned around and looked, and sure enough, someone's poodle was growling at him.

"Hey, Fifi! Get lost!"

He lunged as if he were about to give chase. In any other situation, a lap dog would run; but this one just kept on yapping. And then a Dachshund joined the poodle, and they started yapping in unison. Jon shook his head and started his mail route, stuffing letters into the drop boxes of various warehouses. As he walked through the early morning breeze, the Dachshund and the poodle follow along, yapping all the while.

And as he soon found out, they decided to invite their friends as well.

Each block he traversed added three or four more dogs to the caterwauling horde; he lost count at a dozen small to medium-sized barking dogs. It seemed he didn't get the memo for the "Let's all bark at Jon!" party. The cacophony grew so irksome that he eventually felt forced to turn around and start yelling at them back. Instead of scattering and fleeing, however, the horde simply stopped, bared their canine teeth and growled.

The scene was so bizarre that he didn't notice the Rottweiler leap at him from behind until it was too late. He felt teeth and hot breath on his neck as the rest of the dogs surrounded him.

And then he knew nothing.

Olivia snapped upright in her bed before she even realized that her cell phone was ringing. "Dunham!"

"We have a case," said Broyles. "Get the Bishops and meet me at the Harvard lab at 6 a.m."

With a tired sigh, she searched through her call history for Peter's name. Wow, do I call Peter that often? And that late? She highlighted Peters name and press the CALL button. He picked up in seconds.

"This had better be a booty call," he said with a growl.

She smiled. Six months ago she would have been angry, now it was just Peter being Peter.

"You're up already?"

"Yeah. Walter decided to start making breakfast..." Peter removed the phone away from his face and yelled toward the kitchen, "...as loud as humanly possible!"

"But it's three in the morning," noted Olivia.

"And he's making enough for eight people," specified Peter. "I take it we have a case?"

"Broyles just called. He wants us all to meet at the lab at six."

"Right. I'll get Walter around and call Astrid. And we're bringing breakfast, too. I hope you're hungry."

The members of Fringe Division started rolling into the lab in their usual order. Astrid Farnsworth was first, arriving ten minutes earlier than the appointed rendezvous time. She was followed shortly after by Agents Broyles and Dunham, arriving in separate cars and both precisely on time. Last in were the Bishops, ten minutes late. Walter Bishop swept into the lab, singing an aria from Don Giovanni, followed by his son, who carried a stack of Styrofoam takeout boxes which he began handing out to the rest of the team.

Olivia accepted the box she was given with a wary eye before opening it to review its contents: Two pancakes, two sausage links and some scrambled eggs. She cocked an eyebrow at Peter.

"It's fine! I watched him make it, so I can assure you that it's edible. Besides, if you're gonna wake me up at four in the morning you're at least going to have breakfast with me."

She elbowed him in the ribs and joins the others at the table they reserved for meals in the lab.

Once they've finished breakfast, Broyles rose and produced a disk from his coat. He passed it to Astrid, who began fiddling with the labs AV setup while he briefed the team on the situation at hand.

"A homeless man reported an incident to Boston PD at around midnight. He was scrounging around in a dumpster down at the docks when he found a freshly decapitated head. Naturally, the cops took an interest in the affair, so they got down to the pier and started searching the dumpsters, where they found other body parts in surrounding dumpsters. Astrid, are you set up? All right, this is surveillance camera footage retrieved from the site. It'll show you why this is a Fringe case and not something for Boston homicide."

The footage started, and they watched from different four angles, the pursuit, attack, and dismemberment of an unnamed mail carrier by a large pack of diverse dogs, breeds ranging from Chihuahuas and poodles to a large Rottweiler. After the killing, the dogs systematically dismembered the body and hid the parts in dumpsters along the waterfront, one piece per dumpster. It made for a rather macabre scene; though that didn't stop Walter from applauding at the parts he considered good – whatever that meant. And Peter made his scepticism known through sighs and grunts throughout the recording.

The footage suddenly stopped, and silence filled the lab as the team digested what they had just witnessed. Peter was the first to speak up.

"Do we have a clean chain of possession on that DVD? 'Cause frankly, it looked like something straight out of a cheap horror movie."

Broyles raised an eyebrow. "The chain of possession is me. I took the disk out of the machine myself after watching it at the warehouse. And there's also the matter of the body parts, which should start arriving here shortly. Do you think they're fake?"

"Agent Broyles," began Walter, "while I'm always delighted to accommodate human remains in the lab, I don't expect we'll find anything from it. We already know how this man died. What we need are a few of those dogs."

Broyles shifted uncomfortably. "We couldn't find any of the dogs, unfortunately. All we have are the security footage and the body segments. You'll just have to do the best you can."

Peter smirked. "This is why we get paid the big bucks!"

The briefing over, Broyles left to attend to his other duties, and by silent agreement, the group broke into individual tasks. Olivia went into her office to call the Boston police to see if they had any information on the victim. Peter grabbed a yellow legal pad and pen and sat down to watch the video again, taking detailed notes. As for Walter, he waited eagerly like a young boy the night before Christmas for the body parts to arrive, and Astrid went to milk Gene.

An hour later, Peter knocked on Olivia's office door, and she motioned for him to come in.

"Well, Walter's happy. The body parts just got here. He's putting the poor guy back together right now. Any luck on finding out who he is?"

Peter poured himself a cup of coffee from Oliva's pot and flopped down into a chair.

Olivia smiled and took off her reading glasses. "I just got off the phone with Boston PD. Our victim was Jonathan Adelmann. 28 years old, unmarried. Mail carrier obviously, but up until six months ago he was a research assistant at MIT. I'm going to call the university, to see if I can get anything interesting from them. How about you?"

"Well, Walter is right. We don't have much until we have the dogs. So, I decided to treat the dogs like any other suspects. I captured pictures of each of them from the footage and I'm printing them out now. I figured we could make up posters and head down to the docks to see if anybody has seen the dogs."

Olivia nodded, typing something into her laptop. She then turned her attention to Peter. "Hey, uh, Rachel and Ella are gonna visit this weekend."

Peter perked up. "Special occasion?"

"No. I guess Ella has tomorrow off from school so Rach decided to take a three day weekend out here."

Peter leaned forward and eyed her. "You know, if you want to have some quality time with Rachel I could always watch Ella for an afternoon. Here at the lab, maybe?"

Olivia raised an eyebrow at him. "Really? I would've thought...you'd want to see Rachel."

Peter shook his head. "We never really hit it off like that. We went out for drinks once, but there wasn't any spark. Alas, such is life."

Olivia looked over her laptop at him, trying to gauge his reaction to what she says next. "She still talks about you, you know."

Upon hearing that, Peter simply shrugged, then stood up. "Well, I should get back to work. I have Canine Wanted posters to whip up."

"Peter..." said Olivia. "I'll let you know about Ella, ok?"

Peter nodded then walked back out into the lab, where Walter was busy poking around with Adelmann's body.

"Find anything interesting yet, Walter?" asked Peter.

Walter nodded. "Mister Adelmann was an outie, and uncircumcised as well."

"You know, that's exactly what we were looking for," quipped Peter. "Did you find anything that might show how or why a random pack of dogs would maul and disassemble a guy?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Walter. "But then again, I have just begun my inspection. Though I don't think I'm going to find particularly helpful."

"Well, keep on looking anyway, Walter," said Peter. "I'm sure you'll find something."

At least, that's what Peter hoped as he sat down to oversee the image retrievals of the last few dogs; because having Revenge of Canine Kind play out in real life was certainly going to be a problem.


	3. Chapter 3

Robert took two steps back, brought the pistol out of his jacket, and pointed it at the man in the chair.

"How do you know my name?" he demanded.

He fondled one of the grenades in his jacket pocket. One of the ways to flush out a spy was to arrange something they'd have to react to and then catch them when they did; but this seemed to be an unlikely setup.

"Take it easy!" said Mosley. "My being here is an accident, but I'm really glad you decided to come along. I think they were going to do to me what they did to the dogs upstairs."

With his freed hand, the man released the rest of his restraints, stood up and stretched, seemingly unconcerned that Robert was pointing a gun at him.

"I'm going after the Beacon," he continued. "I know you don't know what that means, but I'll explain later. All you really need to know right now is that it would be a bad idea to let it fall to the Nazis."

Then Mosley simply walked past an astonished Robert and disappeared up the staircase.

After snapping out of his stupor, Robert replaced his pistol and followed the madman to the main floor; he could have really used a cigarette at that point.

When he exited the facility, he found Mosley staring skyward and muttering to himself; he seemed to be orienting himself by the stars. When the process was over, he started walking at a brisk pace, following the nearby road through woods. Robert tagged along quietly.

"What is the Beacon?" asked Bischoff.

Mosley looked at him. "It would be a lot easier if you wait for me to show you. Otherwise you're going to think I'm crazy."

"I already think you're crazy. And I'm starting to worry about my own sanity."

Mosley offered an amused smile as he continued his trek.

About a mile up the road, they saw lights and heard the unmistakeable drone of a diesel engine. Mosley cursed and left the road, creeping through the outlying woods in direction of the lights. Roberts hand kept creeping up to his breast pocket, the one with his cigarettes. But if they were trying to be stealthy, lighting one up would not be a good idea, so Robert repressed his urges and followed Mosley through the woods.

When they were about a hundred feet from the source of commotion, Mosley stopped and crouched.

"Crap! They've got it," he whispered in a worried tone. "This makes things a lot more complicated."

Robert crouched down beside him and peered out at the road, where six uniformed soldiers surround a diesel flatbed truck. Two of the soldiers were loading a cylindrical object onto the back of the truck, while three others stood guard. The last soldier, presumably an officer, was standing around, smoking a cigarette.

The object, which Robert presumed to be the Beacon that Mosley was talking about, was a cylinder of greyish metal about two and a half feet long that resembled an artillery shell or bomb. It glowed faintly with an eerie blue light.

"What is the Beacon?" he asked, "Is it a bomb?"

Mosley shook his head. "No, worse. If they manage to decrypt the information stored inside, they could invade the United States directly from here. No need for planes or ships. It's highly unlikely that they could succeed, but we still need to get that away from them."

Mosley began creeping along the side of the road, toward the truck.

The soldiers finished loading the Beacon on the back of the vehicle. Four jumped on the back with it, the other two got in the cab, and with a roar, it started moving down the road toward them.

"I think we're too late!" Robert yelled over the rising guzzling of the truck.

"Look, Robert", Mosley said, "I need that Beacon!"

Mosley stood up and hurled something in front of the truck. Robert checked his side jacket pocket and realized his companion had grabbed one of the grenades.

"No!" Robert yelled, lunging to his feet.

Then the grenade detonated, spraying truck and human body parts everywhere in an unceremonious explosion. Once the initial shockwave had subsided, Mosley made for the Beacon that had landed in the woods on the other side of the road.

Robert stumbled forward in a daze in direction of the wreckage. One of the nearly dead soldiers began feebly reaching for his rifle upon seeing the man approach. Robert drew his pistol and pinned the soldiers hand to the ground with his boot.

"I'm sorry".

And he put a slug in the back of his head.

After the moment of moral ambiguity, he returned into the dark of night in search of Mosley, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. He looked up at the moon and stars and uttered a silent Act of Contrition as he took a long puff. When he finally finished his cigarette, he tossed the butt on the ground, stamped it out, and muttered angrily to no one in particular.

"...I'm quitting..."

He then moved over to crouch at Mosley's side, where the mysterious Beacon was to be found.

"This had better be worth it," Robert said.

He put out a hand and touched the object's surface. It was impossibly smooth, seamless, and warm to the touch. It vibrated. He watched a blue light slowly spiral its way around up the groove.

"See?" Mosley said, gloating. "Now I've got you hooked."

"Extraterrestrial?" Robert asked. He was indeed fascinated by the object.

Mosley shook his head. "Not quite. Do you still have access to your lab at the university?"

Robert nodded.

Mosley threw a soldier's shredded and bloodstained jacket over the Beacon to conceal it, and picked it up with ease; evidently, it was far lighter than it looked.

"Let's go," said Mosley. "We should get there before sunrise. And I'll explain everything once we're safe at the lab, I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No dogs were harmed in the writing of this story. And if this squicks you, what are you doing watching Fringe, anyways?

Dr. Erwin Metzger was one of the leading cybernetics researchers in the country. He was in his late fifties, balding, morbidly obese, held a slight German accent, and above all, hated women in positions of authority.

Olivia and Peter had arrived for their nine o'clock interview with Metzger precisely on time. But even so, he made them wait outside his office for precisely one hour; it takes balls to make the FBI wait like that, Olivia thought. Once they finally got inside, she pegged him within five minutes. The tip-offs – using a louder voice when talking to her as opposed to when talking to Peter, pushing into her physical space to intimidate her, ignoring her to talk to Peter instead – were all so obvious. Her preferred solution would be to take him out on the mats and kick his misogynist ass, but that sadly wasn't an option here. What made things worse was that Peter appeared to be finding it all so amusing; she felt like kicking his ass as well, but she somehow knew that he would enjoy it.

"Well, that was a bust," she muttered as they walked back to the Navigator.

Peter shrugged. "We've got nothing on him at this point, anyway."

"He demanded we get a warrant to search his lab," she noted. "Do you think that means anything?"

Olivia tended to defer to Peter on matters of the criminal mind.

Peter shook his head. "I doubt it. Walter is the only mad scientist that does his experiments at a university lab."

Adelmann's apartment, situated just off campus, was a stereotypical graduate student abode. Cluttered and dusty, with books and academic journals piled everywhere, dishes still in the sink, pizza and beer in the fridge, a guitar leaned in one corner. It reminded her of the Bishop household, and she wandered around the apartment with this in mind while Peter examined Adelmann's laptop.

When she returned to the living room, Peter was still poking around on the computer.

"Anything interesting?" she asked.

Peter nodded. "Our victim was corresponding by email with People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. He sent them a big, encrypted file last Thursday. I suppose he could be sharing his porn stash, but I doubt it. We're going to need to take the laptop back with us to the lab and let Astrid have a crack at it."

Olivia looked at her watch. "Okay, we can head back to the lab and eat lunch. Then we can head out to the waterfront and look for the dogs."

After they ate lunch at the lab, Peter changed into a grey-black hoodie that has seen better days, a pair of ratty jeans, and a sweat stained baseball cap that must have been yellow once, but had faded to the color of stale piss. The gap between this slovenly creature and the somewhat fashion-conscious man she knew was so great that she hardly recognized him.

"What's this?" Olivia jeered. "You're getting casual on me, now? Is this the real you?"

Peter gave her his patented grin. "Going to talk to the street people. Don't want to intimidate them by looking like a cop."

He was looking her up and down with intent, and she scoffed when she grasped what he meant. Rolling her eyes, she got in the car, started the engine, and pulled out of the driveway, heading across heading en route for the docks.

Peter stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts for several minutes before deciding to break the silence.

"You have to remember, Olivia, that I was basically one of those people for most of my life," he began. "When I dropped out of high school and left, I took the three thousand dollars I had amassed from tutoring dumb jocks and went backpacking around Europe. The money didn't last long, though, and when it ran out, I still didn't want to come home. So I survived. I spoke four languages, so I translated for tourists. Or..."

He produced a coin from his pocket, rolled it across his knuckles and made it disappear.

"I did magic tricks. Or played piano in hotel bars. If I ever I were really desperate, I lifted a wallet or two. The only difference between me and the guys you see sitting in alleys is that I had more skills going in, and kept learning. I read a lot of books. I'm a big proponent of education; just not the formal kind."

Olivia pulled the SUV into a parking spot just a few feet away from the dumpster where Adelmanns' head had been found.

"I think I'm just going to follow your lead here, Peter, since you've clearly thought this through. Where do we start?"

They spent the next two hours wandering the docks, putting up 'Have You Seen This Dog?' signs where they could, and talking to the various domicile-challenged individuals and fishermen they met. It turned out that most, if not all, of the street people recognized one of the dogs in particular, a big black Rottweiler, which they said appeared to be the leader of the pack. Different individuals also recognized other dogs from the photographs.

"Chuckles. I figured him for a bad apple," Peter mused, looking at the picture of the big black Rottweiler.

Olivia shook her head in mock disbelief. "You named the vicious Rottweiler Chuckles?"

"Well, every dog needs a name," he said. "I named them in alphabetical order so they'd be easy to remember. He was the third dog I named, hence Chuckles."

Olivia smirked. "You get more and more like your father every day."

"Hey –" Peter protested before Olivia shushed him.

"Peter! Isn't that mutt over by the dumpster one of the dogs?"

Peter quickly shuffled through the photographs. "Yeah, that's Dave!"

"Dave...you went from Chuckles to Dave?"

"You'd have to know the guy I named him after," he explained.

The dog in question was a smallish grey, curly haired mix. It looked at them sadly and whined. The dog looked ill, with mucus running down its muzzle and a cataract fogging its left eye.

"You know, if I really were a genius I would have at least thought to bring some doggie treats," said Peter. "Any ideas on how we're going to catch this guy?"

The grey mutt spooked and ran, as if it understood what they were talking about. The two of them gave chase, following it down the alleyway and around the corner.

Both came to a dead stop when they were confronted by a half circle of small to medium sized dogs of various breeds. The dogs growled and drooled and barked, working themselves into a frenzy.

Olivia noted that all the street people had vacated the area. Maybe if she had been less interested in bantering with Peter, she would have noticed such an important detail earlier.

The dogs were pouring in from every alleyway. There had to be at least thirty of them, covering all popular breeds. They then bared their fangs and growled in almost synchronous fashion.

"Olivia," Peter said. "This is bad."

Understatement of the century, she thought.

Olivia drew her Glock pistol, held it at a 45 degree angle to the ground, and looked around warily. She felt her blood run cold, thinking back to the film of Adelmann being mauled and dismembered.

"Peter, the backup gun on my right ankle. Grab it. You have 12 shots. Get back to back with me. Let's move slowly towards the SUV. If they try to surround us, start shooting."

She felt him pull the small pistol from her ankle holster, then his broad back pressing against hers. They began slowly moving toward the SUV, step by step, back to back, as the dogs formed a furry, growling cordon around them, thirty feet away. The crowd of canines moved with them, growling and snarling and drooling, but didn't seem to have the courage to charge just yet.

As they steadily worked their way toward the Navigator, Olivia heard a distant throaty growl; she looked up to see the large Rottweiler Peter had named Chuckles on top of the roof of a nearby warehouse, approximately sixty feet away.

Peter stopped abruptly. "Olivia, you're not going to believe this. More dogs have surrounded the SUV. And I think they might be just a little bit telepathic."

Olivia was poised to reply, but the dogs chose that moment to charge in unison, forcing her to fire. Behind her, she heard Peter firing as well. The dogs moved in patterns uncharacteristic for their kind, making it difficult to pick targets, and they nearly reached her before they suddenly stood down, broke ranks and scattered. She spun and took careful aim on Chuckles, intending to take out the dog that seemed to be in charge, but the Rottweiler fled before she could fire.

Olivia and Peter stood and stared around them. They were surrounded by a loose ring of dead dogs.

"We're going to Hell for this, aren't we?" said Peter dryly.

"Really, Peter? Couldn't you have at least captured one of them alive? Frankly, I'm disappointed."

Walter was making a cursory examination of the dogs Peter and Olivia had brought back from the waterfront.

"Or," countered Peter, heaving a particularly fat Pug onto the examination table, "you could have said something like 'Oh, my sweet, precious son, I'm so glad that you and Olivia are alive after being attacked by a pack of murderous hellhounds!' We were busy staying alive, Walter. These may be small dogs, but you know what they can do en masse."

Olivia couldn't help grin at father and son butting heads.

"Peter," she said briskly. "Was that offer to watch Ella tomorrow still open?"

Peter, Walter and Astrid were changing into their autopsy attire, sets of aprons, latex gloves, face masks and goggles, and Olivia decided she wanted to clear out of the lab before they ruined her appetite forever.

"Yeah, sure," replied Peter, snapping his glove.

"I'll drop her off about noon, then. I owe you one!"

And she turned and hurried out of the lab.

Walter parted the Pug's droopy lips to examine its teeth.

"I suspect this is the next stage of canine evolution," he said. "Emergent behavior. Imagine a dog pack that can act in unison, as if it were a single dog..."

Walter fiddled with a bone saw, and Astrid raised her eyebrows at Peter, silently asking for an explanation.

"When a flock of birds turns in flight to evade a predator – a hawk, for instance – they don't follow the leader; all the birds in the flock turn at once," Peter gestured as if one of his hands was a flock of birds and the other was a hawk. "Walter is saying that the behaviour exhibited by these dogs is similar to birds. All the dogs in the pack were attacking at once from all sides."

Peter moved to hold the dog down for Walter to start cutting and Astrid stepped in close with the labs new high definition digital camera to record the proceedings.

Walter carefully cut away the dogs scalp, then whistled. "Now, that is interesting! Ingrid, get some good pictures of this, please!"

Astrid sighed and moved up behind Walter, trying not to touch the dog corpse on another table behind them. She took several photos of the dogs exposed brain, which appeared to be covered with a silvery web or mesh.

"Walter, what is that?" Peter said. He grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray and started probing inside the skull. Astrid felt something soft hit her hip, and she turned to look.

"It appears to be a metal mesh, wrapped around the dogs brain." Walter grabbed a scalpel and started probing as well. "How did they do that? The brain tissue is completely surrounded..."

Astrid screamed when she saw all the dead dogs in the lab kick their legs simultaneously.

Peter and Walter looked up, startled. "Antwerp, are you all right, my dear?" Walter asked.

Astrid gestured at the dogs on the tables in the lab. "They all moved!" her voice quivered.

"They're all dead Astrid, they couldn't have moved," Peter replied. He took her by the elbow and started to guide her toward a chair. Then the collective legs of the pack kicked in unison once again, making Astrid yelp. They looked over to Walter, who was busy poking the autopsied dog's brain again.

Astrid shuddered. "That's it," she said. "I'm calling it a day!"

She quickly changed out of the autopsy clothes, picked up her purse and coat and headed for the door. When she looked back, both Bishops were huddled around the autopsy table, poking the brain and chuckling like schoolboys.

"Have fun playing with dog brains, guys!" she yelled as she left the lab for the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Bischoff and Mosley reached the lab just as the first blood-streaked rays of dawn lit the sky to the east. Mosley tossed the tattered coat he had used to cloak the Beacon into a corner, and set the mysterious device upright on a bench in the center of the lab. Bischoff went into his office, opened a drawer in his desk and grabbed the bottle of cheap vodka and two tumblers he kept stashed there.

If there was ever a time to start drinking at six in the morning, it was on that day.

Bischoff returned to the lab proper and poured a half measure of vodka into each tumbler before handing one to Mosley. He grabbed his own tumbler, raised it in a silent toast to nothing, and both knocked their vodka back.

Once they both stopped gasping from the burn of cheap alcohol, Bischoff cocked his head toward the Beacon. Mosley nodded.

"Before I start explaining things," said Mosley, "I want you to examine it for yourself. Do anything you have to in order to satisfy yourself that the Beacon couldn't be built in this day and age."

Bischoff pondered that for a moment, then disappeared into the back of the lab. He returned carrying two bulky boxes, which he set on the bench on either side of the Beacon. He pulled a cylindrical probe out of one box, and flipped a switch, waving the probe around in the air. Rewarded by a few mechanical clicks from the box, he pointed the probe at the Beacon, and the clicking increased, but not by much. He waved the probe in the air again and the clicking dropped back to normal. He flipped the switch and tossed the probe back into the box.

"The cylinder is radioactive," Bischoff surmised, "but not dangerously so."

He touched the Beacon. The metallic skin of the device was impossibly smooth, seamless, in fact. It vibrated slightly, barely noticeable.

Bischoff next pulled a microphone, attached by a cord, out of the second box. He set the microphone on the bench next to the Beacon. He flipped a switch on the second box, and a stylus began drawing on paper. After a few seconds, Robert tore the paper off and scanned it with an intent eye.

"The cylinder is vibrating at two million and four million cycles," noted Robert.

Robert gathered his thoughts, pouring himself another shot of vodka, which he knocked back immediately. Finally, he looked at Mosley and nodded.

"The Beacon couldn't have been made here," he announced. "It's completely seamless, so the body must have been cast in one piece, but I doubt it. It vibrates, which suggests moving parts inside. And the outer shell is either made of Osmium, Iridium or a Platinum alloy; I can't be sure."

Mosley smiled at him. "Satisfied?"

At Robert's nod, he continues.

"Listen closely, then," began Mosley. "The Beacon's purpose is to triangulate and map wormholes. It does so by homing in on the gravitational distortion the naturally produce. Wormholes are –"

"– theoretical shortcuts that pass through space-time," interrupted Bischoff. "I had this discussion with Einstein in Prague over four years ago."

Mosley chuckled. "I forgot who I was talking to."

Robert's mind raced, and he started thinking out loud. "Assuming wormholes do exist, why would you want to map them? They'd be smaller than microscopic, on the scale of atomic nuclei. They're mainly just an interesting solution to the math."

Mosley clawed his way back into the conversation he had once started. "Here's the thing. This isn't going to be discovered for a long time, but wormholes can be increased in size by injecting exotic matter into wormhole's mouth."

Robert was annoyed to discover that his hands had a will of their when his mind was occupied. Independently, they have decided they needed nicotine, and have found a cigarette, lit it and shoved it into his mouth. He shrugged and puffed away.

"Exotic matter... If such a thing exists, or can be synthesized, then by what degree could it make a wormhole's neck expand?"

"It depends on how much exotic matter you have, really," said Mosley. "Large enough for an adult human to walk through is certainly doable. If you insert some more, it could grow large enough to drive through with the vehicle of your choice. But the larger wormholes become, the more unstable they are."

Mosley appropriated the bottle of vodka from Robert, and poured himself another glass. As for Robert, he placed a hand on his chin, unable to stop his mind from pursuing the tangents that arose from the concept matter.

"So if you had the Beacon in your possession," he mused, "you could theoretically use it to find a wormhole that would take you to, say, a field in Virginia. If you had enough negative matter, you could open the wormhole to a size large enough for an entire army through, marching right into the heart of the United States.

Mosley nodded, knocked back his vodka and coughed.

"What's more, since wormholes connect two regions of space-time, you could theoretically find one that takes you to the United States in say, 1937. Attack before they even know there is a war. And I surmise that you, my friend, are a time traveler from the future, trying to prevent the Nazis from possessing the Beacon, and that we met or will meet in my future, which would be your past."

Mosley smiled and shook Robert's hand. "Good to see you again, Robert. You and I worked together after the war."

Robert finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the trash.

"I'm seriously quitting this time!" he said, noticing Mosley's stare.

Mosley frowned. "Of course. Good luck with that."

"So, what do we do now, John?" Robert asked.

The door of the lab swung open at this moment, and a man of average stature walked in. He wore a plain grey suit and tie, and a plain grey fedora to match. Before either of them could react, the man pulled a pistol from his pocket and fired. Mosley was struck in his back by a ghostly white blast of light and went flying across the lab. Robert had just managed to touch the butt off his own gun when another scintillating blast hit him in the chest like a sledgehammer, and everything went dark.

"Robert? Robert, wake up, buddy."

The voice was vaguely familiar, and seemed to come from high above him. Bischoff heard himself groan, and slowly came back to awareness, lying on the floor in the lab, with Mosley crouching over him, with a concerned look on his face.

"Since when does light hit like a bowling ball?" Robert asked as Mosley helped him to his feet.

Robert held his chest gingerly and experimented with taking a deep breath, but had to stop when he felt a sharp pain in his ribs and dissolved into coughing fit. When he finally stopped wheezing, he noticed that the Beacon was missing.

"How concerned should I be that the man in the suit has the Beacon?" he croaked.

Mosley shook his head. "Don't worry about it. He's not with the Nazis. I'll just have to find it again."

Mosley groaned. Holding his lower back, he limped over to the table where the vodka and tumblers still sat. He poured the last of the vodka into the tumblers and knocked one back, then carried the other over to Robert, who had finally managed to sit up. He accepted the vodka, and finished it in one gulp and started coughing again.

"Oh, that may have been a mistake," said Robert." I think my some of my ribs may be broken."

Mosley sat down beside him. "Yeah, you don't look so good." He produced a small black notebook from his pocket and wrote something, tore the page off and handed it to Robert. On it was a name and an address.

"Samuel Weiss?" Robert asked. He probed his ribs gingerly. Although he didn't find any lumps or sharp edges, his chest still hurt. "Who is he?"

"He'll help you get out of Germany. Tell him I sent you. And give Sofie a hug for me."

Mosley stood up, pulling on his coat.

"I don't know anyone named Sofie." Robert tried to sit as still as possible and gather his strength.

Mosley smiled. "You will!"


	6. Chapter 6

"Brown sugar glazed Twinkies?" Peter said with a tone of incredulity in his voice. "Really, Walter?"

The two of them were alone in the lab, stationed near one of the tables in the back. They were watching over a large electric skillet, in which a mixture of cooking oil and brown sugar was lazily bubbling. His father nodded, dumping another pair of the golden pastries in the frying pan.

"I'm sure that Ella will adore these!" assured Walter. "You certainly loved them as a boy."

Peter shook his head. "I've never had a glazed Twinkie, Walter. I think I would remember something like that."

"In that case, you really should try one." Walter held up one of the finished product toward him in a pair of tongs. It looked like a fat, golden-brown corn dog, minus the stick.

"No, thank you, Walter," Peter replied.

Peter thought about the situation. The Dunham women would be arriving at the lab any minute; all things considered, this was probably the least trouble Walter could get him into while they were watching Ella.

"On second thought," said Peter, "I think I will have one."

"Thank you, Peter!" exclaimed Walter, who happily returned to his confection making.

With a whoosh, the door opened across the room and Olivia, Rachel and Ella entered the lab. When she saw Peter, Ella gave a squeal and ran to him. "Peter!"

"Whoa there!" Peter tossed Ella in the air once, caught her then set her back on her feet.

"Peter, Peter! Can I feed Gene?" Ella asked.

"Sure you can. Do you remember where everything is?"

Ella nodded and ran across the lab to where the cow was kept.

More sober greetings were exchanged between the adults. Then Rachel sniffed the air, intrigued.

"What's that?" she asked. "It smells delicious."

"So..." Rachel pushed aside her empty soup bowl and started on her salad. "You and Peter..."

"Peter and I, what?" Olivia nibbled on a bread stick and glared at her sister.

"Really Liv?" Rachel asked. "You're gonna try that with me?"

Olivia said nothing and kept eating.

"Liv, he's at the lab babysitting Ella so we can spend some Girl Time together. That's not a co-worker, that's a boyfriend; and a very sweet one I might add."

Olivia snorted and sampled her pasta. "There's nothing going on. Besides, you're the one he asked out."

"Told you about that, did he? He probably feels guilty. Truthfully, I'd gladly take him off your hands. Ella could use a good male role model, and we both know that's not Greg. But he's just not into me, as much as I keep trying to turn his head my way."

Olivia was getting annoyed at this conversation. "You only see him on his best behaviour."

Rachel sipped her glass of wine. "Ok, let me ask you this. What did you do last Thursday night?"

Olivia sighed. "I went out for drinks...with Peter."

Rachel shook her head. "You poor thing. You're dating him and you don't even know it!"

After finishing their lunch, Oliva and Rachel spent two hours shopping for nothing in particular as per their tradition, then drove back to the lab to pick up Ella.

Walking the hallway outside the lab, they heard someone playing the piano. This wasn't unusual; Peter often did so in the afternoon. What was strange was that it definitely wasn't Peter playing. The notes had an unsure, stuttering quality to them, as if someone were hunting and pecking the keys.

When they entered the lab, they saw Ella and Peter at the piano. Ella sat on the bench, with Peter standing behind her, his large hands covering her smaller ones as he guided her hands on the keys. They were so engrossed in what they were doing that they didn't notice Olivia and Rachel arriving until Rachel walked around to get a picture of them with her cell phone.

"Hi, mom!" Ella yelled. "We got to play with quantum entangled dog brains!"

Peter looked panicked for a second, but recovered quickly. "...And we learned how to play the piano! Seriously, the dog brains were all Walter."

To Peter's relief, Rachel ignored the dog brains comment as she came forward and hugged her daughter. Olivia tapped his shoulder.

"I take it we had a break in the case?" she asked.

"A couple, actually."

"Okay, I'll take Rachel and Ella home, change and be back here in an hour."

Olivia arrived at the lab just as the sun was going down. On entering, the first thing she noticed was an acrid aroma. At the back Peter and Walter were cleaning up the aftermath of a small fire.

Astrid walked up, a small grin on her face. "See what happens when you leave the boys alone for too long?"

Olivia stared. Not for the first time, she wondered what really went on in the lab when she wasn't around. "What happened?"

"Oh, uh, Walter tried to improve on the glazed Twinkie formula by adding marshmallow, peanut butter, chocolate and caramel. Something in the mix didn't approve and objected rather violently."

Olivia shook her head and returned to the matters at hand. "So what's our status on the Adelmann case?"

Astrid motioned for Olivia to follow her, and the two moved to a nearby table where Adelmann's laptop was set up.

"I decrypted the file Adelmann sent to PETA," Astrid said as she bent over to type on the keyboard. "Apparently, Metzger was doing some experimentation on dogs."

Olivia bent over and paged though several of the photos, rather disgusted. "And I don't think that's Metzger's lab at MIT."

Astrid nodded. "I called. MIT doesn't know anything about animal experimentation. He would have to get approval for that. Oh, and the guys have an explanation of what he was doing."

Olivia and Astrid walked over to where Walter and Peter had gathered another lab table. On the table was a specimen tray housing canine brain.

"Olivia!" Walter said. "Good to see you again! Isn't this simply fascinating?"

"Hello, Walter. What am I looking at here?" Olivia bent over the specimen tray.

Walter took a probe and touched the brain, making Astrid shudder involuntarily.

"The brains have been wrapped in a thin platinum alloy mesh," he said. "It's a remarkable feat of microsurgery; I'd really like to know how they did it. The meshes are collectively entangled at the quantum level. It transmits signals from the Rottweiler's brain to the others, who immediately receive the impulses in simultaneous fashion."

"Huh," said Olivia. "So the mesh around the dog's brain is like the typewriter the Shapeshifters use to communicate with the Other Side?"

Peter spoke up. "It's more than that. It's effectively telepathy and mind control. And the neat thing about it is that it's virtually impossible to jam. Since they're all entangled, there's no range limit, and no way to listen in on the signal. The system just is."

"Wait a second," said Astrid. "If all the meshes are entangled with one another, then no one dog has priority over the others. If one dog has a thought, all the others receive simultaneously. So how exactly does, uh... Chuckles maintain control and order over the rest?"

The Bishops were stumped, their fascination with the entanglement system wiped clean from their faces and replaced instead with the burrowed brows of thought.

"Well," suggested Peter, "maybe Chuckles has some sort of master mesh, so his impulses are the dominant ones."

"No, that still doesn't work," said Astrid. "Prioritization is impossible in entanglement."

"Wait!"

Walter's sudden exclamation caused everyone to stand rigid, and all bent their eyes towards the old man with the finger in the air, awaiting a response.

"...Oh, dear," he said rather sheepishly. "It seems I forgot what I was going to say."

They all sighed, though Peter was the only one whose sigh was audible.

"Anyway," resumed Peter. "If Chuckles doesn't have a dominant mesh, then how can he control the other dogs?"

"Wait!"

"What now, Walter?" asked Peter, who was getting rather annoyed.

"Dominance!" said Walter. "I remember what I was going to say. The solution is simple, really. The reason Mister Chuckles appears to be the dominant dog of the pack is because he is the dominant dog."

"Of course," said Peter, catching on. "Chuckles is the Alpha Male, so all the other dogs in the pack are naturally submissive to him. The dogs subconsciously accept Chuckles as their leader, so most of their thoughts are directed towards him, technically giving Chuckles priority despite the entanglement of the meshes."

"So the meshes basically enhance natural canine behavior?" asked Olivia.

"That seems to be the case," surmised Walter. "Although, I'm afraid we'll be unable to continue inspecting the cadavers. As it would seem, Peter and I poked the dog brains a little too much last night, and we inadvertently breached the entanglement. This particular system doesn't work anymore."

"Wait..." Olivia said, then paused, considered her words carefully. "Does that mean that this particular pack of dogs is no longer a danger?"

Walter nodded. "Yes. The system collapsed. It no longer functions. I thought I said that already."

He poked one of the exposed brains to prove his point, causing only one dog to twitch.

"Well, that's good news, then, right?" Olivia stated. "No more dead mail carriers to worry about."

Peter shook his head. "Alright, this may just be my paranoia talking, but why would someone want to take control of a pack of dogs? And what happens when whoever is responsible finds out we killed their dogs? No, this is a test run; next time, the victims might go missing altogether."

Olivia tensed. "We have to find Metzger."


	7. Chapter 7

The address on the piece of paper John had given Robert led him to one of the oldest taverns in Berlin, aptly found in one of the oldest parts of the city. He had ventured there once before as a young student, but couldn't recall much due to the large amounts of drinking with fellow classmates the trip had involved.

The long walk tired him, which consequently caused him to worry. Robert was an athletic man – he was once an Olympic contender in swimming – but today he felt like an old one. The whole ordeal with the man in the fedora had Robert theorizing ever since on how light could possibly carry and transfer kinetic energy to cause such a heavy impact, but none of the modern scientific knowledge at his disposal could demystify the mechanics of the technology at play. But whatever that man had shot him with, it felt like something in his chest had been knocked loose and was now rolling around in his thoracic cavity without constraint.

Or maybe it was merely losing a night of sleep and drinking half a bottle of vodka with Mosley before being shot. That his last few days in Germany had been an abject failure didn't help to improve his state of mind either. Choosing to commit treason and murder yet still failing to destroy the lab weighed on him. Not to mention losing the Beacon afterwards; but then again, he supposed that wasn't his responsibility. He would be leaving Germany under a personal black cloud of shame.

Leaving Germany. The thought hadn't occurred to him until that moment. Where would he go? Who was Robert Bischoff, if not a German?

He rapped on the front door of Taverne der ersten Menschen . It was ten o'clock in the morning, so the place was naturally closed, but he assumed there was probably somebody there. Moments later, an older gentleman, wearing a feathered cap with a long white beard and Lederhosen garments, opened the door and peeked out.

"Sam Weiss?" Robert inquired. When the man nodded he extended his hand. "Robert Bischoff. John Mosely sent me." Weiss shook his hand with a smile and motioned Robert inside.

"We were worried about you," said Weiss. "Don't talk until we get downstairs."

Weiss led him to the back of the tavern to a set of stairs leading down. Weiss rapped on the door at the bottom of the stairs in a particular pattern; a different pattern of knocks from the other side resounded in answer. Weiss opened the door and lead him into the room beyond.

Robert had been expecting an OSS radio room full of commandos; what he saw was a dank tavern basement, kegs of beer lining the walls, lit by oil lamps. In the center of the basement were about thirty children of varying ages strewn about.

A young woman, dressed in a beige wool sweater and slacks, and with long blond-brown hair tied back with a simple piece of string, stood beside the door. The ease with which she handled the submachine gun slung on her right shoulder suggested that the price for those who used the wrong knocking pattern on the door was their life.

"Orphans?" Robert asked Weiss.

Weiss nodded. "Jewish. We smuggle them out of Germany by freighter once a month. We're not OSS, but we've struck a deal with them. They supply us with the food and medicine and weapons we need, and in return, we smuggle their spies out with the kids when their cover is blown. Sofie here will be joining you."

Robert laughed and looked at the young woman, who returned the glance, sizing him up and down with her steel grey eyes; she must have found something in him she liked, seeing as she didn't slap him for his sudden chuckling.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Something funny?"

"John Mosley told me to pass on a hug on his behalf," explained Robert.

Sofie smiled and opened her arms. "Well?"

It's not every day he got to hug a beautiful woman he just met, but that didn't reduce the gravity of the situation. Robert stepped forward and embraced her, careful to avoid touching the submachine gun. When they broke the brief embrace, Bischoff noticed that Weiss had disappeared upstairs.

Robert felt a sudden urge. He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket, offered Sofie one, which he lit before handing it to her. "I'm Robert Bischoff, by the way."

Sofie nodded. "The university professor at the Science Ministry. I've heard of you. I was working as a maid at the Luftwaffe HQ. You'd be surprised how much you overhear. How is John? I haven't seen him in two years."

"He's alive; at least, as of about three hours ago. I just met him today." Robert finished his cigarette, tossed the butt into a nearby bucket which seemed to have been made for that very purpose. "I'm quitting, by the way."

"Terrible habit." Her butt joined his in the bucket. "The truck leaves tonight. You're lucky to have come here today. I've been waiting here for two weeks."

"Where does the truck go?" Robert asked.

Sofie shook her head. "I don't know. Sam changes the route every month, and he keeps knowledge of it to himself. Security, you know. Anyway... we're about to feed the kids their lunch. Care to help?"

"Of course."

Robert spent the afternoon and evening assisting Sofie and Sam around the tavern with various chores. Having never spent much time with children, he felt awkward interacting with them at first, but most of them seemed to take a gradual liking to him by the end of the night. He tried to avoid thinking about where their parents could be, and came to the conclusion that leaving Germany was the best thing for all of them; he couldn't bear staying in that place any longer.

When the tavern opened in the afternoon of the following day, Robert and Sofie joined Sam upstairs and sat at the bar. With their light banter and laughter, they were acting like a young couple courting. Or maybe they weren't actually acting; Robert was a little unclear on that point.

A lot of things were unclear to him.

"Robert," Sofie whispered to him. "You look exhausted."

Robert took another sip of his beer and nodded. "Two days without sleep will do that to a man."

He put a hand on her back and caressed it fondly. Sofie acted as though the little touches they exchanged between them were perfectly natural at that point.

She placed the back of her hand against his forehead. "I think you have a fever. The truck should be here at around midnight. We can get some sleep then."

Just as Sofie had predicted, Robert heard the distinct rumble of a diesel engine at the back of the tavern as the midnight hour approached. Sofie took his hand and lead him downstairs to the basement. From a locked cabinet she produces a submachine gun identical to the one she carried around and handed it to Robert.

Robert moved to the back wall of the basement, opened the cellar doors leading to the street and looked out. To his astonishment, he found a huge diesel transport with German Army markings.

"How do you think we make it to the border without getting stopped?" Sofie replied, noticing his bafflement. "Start loading the children. I'll talk to the driver."

It took Robert a full twenty minutes to herd all the children in the back of the truck, mainly because he fussed about getting everyone situated in the most spatially efficient manner possible. He also tried to pair the youngest children with the oldest to reduce overall anxiety. But in the end, he simply gave up and lifted the last few kids in the back before pulling himself up and helping Sofie inside.

"We're going north to Rostock. Then we'll be taking a Spanish freighter to England." Sofie checked his temperature again and frowned. The two of them curled up together in the right rear corner of the truck bed.

"Robert..." she whispered into his ear. "Would you like to travel together once we leave Germany?"

He bent his mouth down to her ear. "I think I'd like that very much."

The truck sped off, and the dull roar of the truck engine, coupled with the warmth of Sofie's body pressed against him, lulled Robert to a deep, dreamless sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

"Walter!" Peter snarled. "Let it go! I'm sorry I brought it up, alright?"

Olivia couldn't help smiling at Peter's exasperated tone. He had accidentally revealed that for a period of his past nomadic sojourns, he had been, for all intents and purposes, a homeless man, which had triggered Walter's guilt over his absence during most of his son's life.

Of course, it was all unfolding as they zoomed down the highway on their way to the raid on Metzger's house; Broyles had lost the coin toss, and was leading the simultaneous raid on Metzger's lab at MIT.

"I refuse to let it go!" Walter said from the back seat. "I can't believe that my son was once a vagabond!"

Peter growled with frustration.

"Look at it this way, Walter. I was backpacking in Europe. I just didn't sleep in the same place twice for two years. It was the perfect life for a twenty year old!"

Walter spoke with genuine anger now. "Perfect? You should have been in college! You had a scholarship at MIT! Why would you choose to squander your intellect instead of putting it to good use?"

Olivia decided it was time to interrupt before they could veer into ugly territory. She glanced over at Peter, who was trying to speed-read a stack of files on Metzger they received just before they left the lab. "Anything?"

Peter shook his head. "Not yet. We know Broyles isn't going to find anything at the lab, and I doubt there might be anything left at his house. Metzger has to have another lab somewhere."

Olivia pulled the Navigator to the side of the street, a block from Metzger's home.

"He made a mistake somewhere," she said. "They always do. Stay here until I give you the all clear."

She exited the vehicle and ran up the street, joining the small horde of SWAT team members and FBI agents pillaging a large Colonial style home.

Walter stirred in the rear seat. When he spoke, Peter could tell from the tone of his voice that he was having one of his fleeting moments of full lucidity, so he listened carefully.

"Dr. Metzger was a cybernetics researcher. The quantum entangled mesh around the dog brains were placed so precisely; I doubt it was the work of any human surgeon. Perhaps he used a surgical robot. Metzger could automate the procedure, write a program and have the machine do the surgery."

"That's good, Walter," said Peter. "Surgical robots are expensive and there aren't many manufacturers." He grabbed his cell phone and called Astrid. "Astrid? I need you to work your magic. We need a list of surgical robot buyers in the Boston area. They cost over a million each so there can't be many." He listened for a moment. "Okay, call me when you have something."

Walter sighed behind him, fidgeting nervously. When he spoke, his voice had a nervous tremor to it.

"I can't imagine not sleeping in the same bed every night. Not...waking up in the same place."

Peter wondered whether his father had skipped some of his medications that morning; he was certainly having strong mood swings. He looked over his shoulder at Walter, took in the stressed expression and tense posture, and realized that he was really struggling with this.

All due to an offhand comment to Olivia he made half an hour ago.

"We're just wired a little differently, Walter," assured Peter. "I don't get as attached to places as you do. As most people do, I guess." Peter looked Walter in the eyes. "It was nothing you did. After...you went to Saint-Claire's, Mom and I moved around a lot, and I guess I just...never felt comfortable anywhere."

Walter avoids his gaze, speaks quietly. "You don't get attached to people, either."

Peter wondered how this conversation had gotten so uncomfortable so quickly. He never talked about his nomadic tendencies directly because it triggered the wanderlust in him. He wanted nothing more at that moment to jump out of the Navigator and hail a taxi to head for the nearest train station or airport. At the same time, he didn't want to shut down a coherent conversation with Walter, something as rare as a white buffalo; so he clenched his jaw and powered through.

"No, I guess I don't. What's really bothering you, Walter?"

Walter's eyes didn't meet his. "I found a leather satchel in the basement yesterday. I wasn't snooping, but I did look inside."

"You found my bugout bag."

Peter actually hadn't thought about it since he moved in. He'd hidden it behind the furnace in the basement of the old house he and Walter shared, when they first moved in. It had everything Peter needed – cash, a change of clothes, a prepaid cellphone, a debit card and a list of contacts – in the event he needed to bail from Boston at a moment's notice. He'd since completely forgotten about it.

Peter sighed. "Don't worry Walter. I'm not going anywhere. That's just something I need, like a security blanket. I...need to know I can leave if I wanted to. It doesn't mean that I will."

Olivia followed the entry team into Metzger's house after they battered their way through the front door. Search teams fanned out, calling out "Clear!" over the common radio frequency they were using as they moved through the various rooms.

She holstered her gun. Peter was right; they were just going through the motions with these raids. But Metzger couldn't have known the timing of their raids, so he might just have left something useful behind. She used her walkie-talkie to order the evidence techs into the scene, then called Peter on her cell phone, informing the Bishops that it was safe to come up to the house.

Olivia walked about, overseeing the collection of evidence and trying to get the general feel of Metzger's mind from his dwelling place.

"Agent Dunham?" A young male evidence tech approached her, eager as a puppy."We found something you should see."

She followed the tech down into Metzger's basement, nodding as she listened. "We've found a few weird things in the basement. He has quite the collection of dog brains, for instance." The brains in question were arranged in jars of clear fluid on wooden shelves lining the walls, some of them adorned with the silvery mesh. "And then there's this one."

The jar the tech pointed toward contained a much larger brain, wrapped in silver mesh.

It was unmistakably human.

She shivered. "We're going to need Dr. Bishop down here. We need to find out if this is a...fresh brain, or if it's something from a research supply house."

The tech was practically bouncing up and down, waiting for her attention. "And we also have this..." He led her to another room. From inside Olivia heard Peter's incredulous voice

"Oh, you have to be kidding me!"

The room in question was, for lack of a better term, a Nazi shrine. Black and white pictures of Hitler, Nazi soldiers, maps of various WWII battles; a plethora of documents adorned the walls. One wall had a distinct emphasis on pictures of Nazi soldiers and scientists with dogs. At one end was a Nazi flag with a picture of Hitler in an honoured place, a candle burning before it.

Peter rolls his eyes. "Gee, how original. A German scientist who also happens to be a Nazi."

Walter approached them. "It is somewhat cliché, isn't it?"

Olivia touched the scientist's arm, giving it a fond rub. "Walter, did you take a look at the human brain out there?"

"Yes, dear. I can't be certain without a tissue sample, but it looks fresh. I suspect that it's been sitting in the jar for no more than two weeks."

"Agent Dunham?" the evidence tech interrupted; he was practically vibrating with energy. "There's more..."

Olivia nodded. The tech guided the Fringe team to a small room, outfitted as an office, with a desk and computer. The desk was covered in typed papers, most of them yellowed with age.

Olivia skimmed the papers. Her German was good enough to read 90% of it, faltering only on obscure scientific terminology; but that's what Walter and Peter were for. Her eye was drawn to the signature on one of the papers. The scrawl itself was barely legible, but typed beneath it, in capital letters, was a single name.

ROBERT BISCHOFF.

"Oh my," Olivia said, shocked, her voice echoing in the small room. Peter moved to her side, curious, looked down at the paper she's reading. His head sagged and he sighed tiredly. When he spoke, it's as if he'd been expecting exactly this.

"It just never fucking ends, does it?"


	9. Chapter 9

Robert woke in a coughing fit, one that made his eyes water, his torso ignite in pain, and his head feel like a popped balloon. When at last he could breathe again, he stared at the small spots of bright blood staining his palm.

Not a good sign.

He dug a handkerchief out of his jacket and wiped his hand clean, then took a gander at his surroundings. He was alone in the back of the truck, which had been pulled into a woody clearing at the side of the road. The sun was shining and birds were singing; the scent of campfire permeated the air. He crawled out of the truck bed and walked around, following the overhead pillar of smoke to the campsite. The children were seated in a semicircle, along with Sofie and the truck's driver.

Sofie smiled brightly when she saw him and waved. He came to seat at her side, after which she shoved a hot tin cup of coffee into his hands. He took a cautious sip from the cup and barely stopped himself from spitting the foul brown liquid out before him.

"Sorry about that," Sofie said. "The water I got from the creek didn't look very clean, so I threw a few iodine tablets into the mix."

"A few?"

"A few too many, I'm afraid. Don't worry, though. It should be perfectly safe to drink."

Robert took another tentative sip, then a more courageous mouthful. Now that knew what to expect, it wasn't so bad; it also managed to soothe his throat. "It's good," he assured her. "Thank you."

"You were sleeping so well," explained Sofie. "I didn't want to wake you. Johann – that's our driver – says that we're about halfway to Rostock. But he doesn't want to drive during the day; it's safer this way."

Robert looked at the driver and gave him a friendly nod; the driver, a burly man with cropped blond hair, reciprocated the gesture before heading to the nearby creek.

Sofie put a tin plate piled high with scrambled eggs in his hands. She cast a glance at the driver's receding back, and a strange expression passed over her face.

"What is it?" asked Robert. He took the spoon she offered and started eating his eggs with enthusiasm, hungrier than he thought he was.

"Something is off about the driver," she said. "He barely talks to anybody."

Sofie put the back of her hand against Robert's forehead, testing his temperature.

"Maybe he's just shy," Robert replied after swallowing.

Sofie frowned. "Your fever is higher than it was last night. Hold on, I'll be right back."

She walked back to the truck, rummaged around in the cab, and found a bulky canvas bag with a bright red cross on it. Robert had finished his breakfast by the time she returned to his side.

She put the bag down beside him, opened it, and fondled its contents, finally settling on a stethoscope.

"I need to listen to your breathing." Without waiting for a reply, she opened his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, while Robert kept sipping coffee, too weak to offer any resistance. When she gasped, he looked down.

The bruise on his chest was a near perfect circle of blue-black, abused flesh, the circumference matching the size of his fist.

"Robert, what happened?" Sofie asked, startled.

He gave her the abridged version of the encounter with the bald man in the fedora back at the lab. She listened with wide eyes. When the tale came to its conclusion, she placed the disk of the stethoscope against his chest – careful not to touch the bruise – and listened to his breathing.

"You have some fluid in your lungs," she reported.

She put the stethoscope away and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then she suddenly reached out and pushed on his chest. Robert groaned and collapsed into another coughing fit.

"Whatever that light was," she said, "it cracked your sternum, so you're breathing shallow."

When Robert finally ceased coughing, she was rooting around in the medical bag again. To his alarm, she produced an enormous syringe and an ampoule of yellow fluid.

"I think you have early stage pneumonia." Sofie filled the syringe with the yellow liquid and squirted the air bubbles out. "I'm going to give you a large dose of penicillin. With any luck, you'll be able to shrug it off before we get to Rostock. If not, it's three days on the sea in a damp freighter."

She gave him the injection. "You should rest as much as you can today. Let me worry about the children and the camp. We'll leave for Rostock once it's fully dark."

Robert made it his only duty for the rest of the day to keep the fire going. Most of the time, he would lay by it, wrapped in blankets and dozing off. Sofie must have explained to the children that he was sick, because a number of them approached with worried faces, gave him a quick hug, and retreated well outside the range of the mystery disease's clutches.

As for the driver, he didn't approach him; he seemed perfectly content to skulk by the cab of the truck and chain smoke.

Robert himself didn't feel any particular urge to smoke. His throat and lungs were already raw, and besides, he was quitting.

They had another communal meal around the campfire as the sun sank, this time in the form of a thin broth. It tasted good, however, and Robert was feeling remarkably better by that point. After the meal, Sofie sat with him, curled under the blankets, and they watched the stars gradually poke their heads through the cosmic veil.

Since he had been little boy, Robert had held a great interest in the stars and the constellations they formed. He would read every book he could find about them, and then would go outside and observe them, learning their movements and their names. That early obsession in astronomy had sparked his later interest in physics, which he saw as the key to understanding what compelled the stars and planets to dance across the heavens the way they did.

On command, Robert Bischoff could tell you exactly where he was anywhere in Europe, simply by looking at the night sky. It was how he had found his way on many occasions.

And it was how, as the night went on and more stars made their presences known, that he knew they weren't anywhere near Rostock.

"The driver has betrayed us," said Robert suddenly.

"What –"

"Shh!"

Her eyes widened in surprise and she tried to speak again, but he silenced her; through his expression, Sofie understood his intentions, and nodded, knowing what had to be done. Without a sound, Robert threw off the blankets and crept around the driver's side of the truck, drawing his silenced pistol; Sofie grabbed her SMG and moved around the other side.

When he reached the cab, Robert threw open the door, seized Johann by his jacket and threw him to the ground. The startled guard rose to one knee, reaching for the pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers, but stopped when Robert placed the muzzle of his .22 against his forehead.

"...How did you know?" the driver asked, astonished.

Sofie stepped forward and removed the pistol from Johann's waistband, all the while keeping the muzzle of her SMG locked to his head.

"It was written in the stars," Robert replied without humor. "Where were you really taking us?"

"To a secluded field about twenty miles east from here. I wasn't told what was going to happen after that." The driver was shaking in fear.

"I think it's pretty obvious what was going to happen," Sofie muttered from behind him.

"Please," the burly driver begged. "Please, don't kill me! I have a family!"

The man started to cry. Robert was deeply conflicted by the sight of this man. Letting him go free might be the stupidest thing Robert has ever done; but he had already committed two murders in the past few days, and was complicit in a few others. Both scales of his inner balance teetered, until Johann's fate was decided.

"What is your full name?" Robert asked.

The driver swallowed. "Metzger. Johann Metzger!"

"Well, Johann Metzger, my name is Robert Bischoff. Today is your lucky day." Robert placed the muzzle of his pistol against Metzger's knee and fired, shattering his kneecap. Metzger screamed and collapsed.

"Get the children loaded!" Robert commanded. "We have to leave now!"

Sofie nodded and ran toward the group of terrified children, giving Metzger a look that told Robert she wouldn't have been so merciful. Robert climbed into the cab of the large diesel truck and examined the controls. He had never been a farmhand, but he eventually figured out how to get the beast started.

"Sixteen gears?" he muttered to himself.

Five minutes later, Sofie opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat beside, stowed the two SMG's under the seat.

"You know how to drive this thing?" she asked.

"No. Do you?"

"No."

Sofie abruptly leaned over and kissed him, her lips lingering on his. "For luck," she explained.

Robert ground the gears for a full minute before he got the truck to move. He then pulled onto the adjacent road, heading north, leaving a whimpering and squirming Johann Metzger to roil beside the fading embers of the campfire.


	10. Chapter 10

"I don't get it, Walter" Peter said to his father. "None of the plans for canine telepathy my grandfather approved should even be working!"

It was the day after the raids on Metzger's lab at MIT and his home. They were at the Harvard lab, trying to make sense of the World War Two era documents retrieved from the Metzger residence.

Walter nodded. "And yet, we have photographs that prove it did work."

The pictures in question depicted packs of dogs tearing apart prisoners of war, attacking in a very familiar, coordinated fashion, led by what appeared to be a large Dobermann Pinscher. The only apparent difference between that old project and the Chuckles case was that the Nazi era dogs had antennas coming out of the backs of their heads.

It was surreal and disturbing.

Peter fidgeted. "Why would Robert approve this project?"

"You have to remember, Peter," explained Walter, "that your grandfather was working for the OSS at the time. He might have approved the funds knowing that it wouldn't work. A form of sabotage, if you will."

Peter gulped the last of his coffee, looked into space with an expression of intense concentration.

"What, son?" Walter asked.

"They lied. We know what's described in these documents couldn't possibly work. But we have pictures proving that it did. They lied about what they were doing when they asked for funding. Maybe they thought they could make a profit after the war."

Walter smiled. "And they thought I was paranoid. I know I have something for that around here."

Peter picked up another document and gave it a cursory examination. When he reached the bottom, he gasped.

"You have to be shitting me."

He showed the yellowed piece of paper to Walter, pointing out the name at the bottom.

"Johann Metzger," Walter said darkly. "I must admit that even my suspension of disbelief is being challenged."

At that moment, an unattended sandwich burst into flames on the table behind them.

"What the hell?" Peter said, astonished. "My lunch!"

"I'm waiting on call-backs from three surgical robot manufacturers, and Peter is being a bear today!" Astrid reported, walking into Olivia's office.

Olivia looked at the Junior Agent from over the rims of her glasses. "I heard him yelling at Walter earlier. Didn't he set fire to something?"

Astrid sighed. "Yes, but it's not like Walter hasn't set anything on fire before. Could you maybe... work some of your magic on Peter before I kick his ass?"

Olivia blinked; if she had any magical influence over Peter's behavior, she wasn't aware of it. But she nodded at Astrid. "I'll talk to him as soon as I'm done with this report."

She found Peter down at the riverside, huddled in his peacoat against the early spring chill and sitting on the bench she would normally occupy when she had to gather her thoughts. He had an open plastic bag of bread slices beside him and was busying himself in feeding a flock of quacking ducks.

He scooted over when he noticed her, and Olivia sat down next to him.

"Hey!" she said, giving him their all-purpose greeting.

"Hey," he responded, watching the ducks scurry for chunks of bread. He nudged the half full bag of bread toward her, offering. She took a few slices out and joined him in tearing off chunks and feeding the waddling horde.

Olivia nudged Peter with her elbow. "So, Astrid says you're being a bear."

Peter looked at her with a sheepish grin. "Is that right? Looks like I'm gonna have some apologies to make when I get back to the lab."

"What's wrong?"

Peter sighed, and rubbed his face. "That fight I had with Walter yesterday? Well, we continued after you left for the raid. I think it must have kicked something loose in my head. I had some bad dreams last night, woke up today, and bang, I have itchy feet again. I seriously felt like hopping a bus to New York or somewhere this morning."

Olivia frowned. "I didn't realize it was that serious."

Peter shrugged. "I didn't either, until I woke up this morning. The thing is...I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to sleep in hotel rooms every night or in a car. I don't want to have a lot of acquaintances but no friends. I have a house here in Boston, I have a job, I sort of have a family, and I just wonder what's wrong with me I can't just enjoy it."

Peter looked over at her, gauging her reaction. To his surprise, Olivia smiled. "See, I'm relieved that you told me," she said brightly. " I think I know you pretty well, Peter. As well as I know anyone. And if you were actually going to leave, you wouldn't tell anyone. You'd just go."

Peter nodded. "Like I did to my mom."

Olivia frowned, and pulled her buzzing cell phone out of her pocket. "Astrid!"

She put the phone to her ear, nodded as if her assistant could see her. "Ok, we'll be right back."

"Five?" Olivia said, rubbing her temples. "There's no way a judge will approve search warrants for five different companies, not with what we have right now. We have a lot of legwork ahead of us."

"He's spamming us!" Peter growled.

Astrid laughed. "What?"

"He's spamming us. He bought five surgical robots under five different shell companies so he'd be harder to trace."

"Your paranoia is getting out of hand." Astrid snatched the list out of Peter's hands. "That would also mean he spent five million dollars on the off chance he'd be investigated. Where would he get the money?"

"Good point." Peter sipped his coffee, trying to think of a way to narrow the list. "I still can't believe there are five companies that needed surgical robots in the last year."

Astrid raised her hand as if she were waiting to be called on in class. "Why don't we just ask Walter?"

The Junior Agent walked over to the scientist in question, who was intently examining a piece of dog brain under a microscope. She handed him the list.

"Walter, if you were Metzger, at which of these locations would you set up your lab?"

Walter perused the list for a minute before speaking. "The warehouse at the waterfront."

"Any reason in particular?" Peter asked.

"People in the area would be used to traffic at all hours of the night," began Walter, "so nobody would think anything of deliveries of equipment. Metzger would also need a source of test subjects. There are stray dogs in the area, as we have seen. And when he moved up to human subjects – whom I strongly doubt would volunteer to have their skulls cut open – the vagrants would be easily available."

Astrid smiled proudly. "Want to track a mad scientist? Ask a mad scientist to help."

Peter looked at Olivia. "That's just a few blocks from where the dogs attacked us."

"Sounds good to me," Olivia said. "Come on, let's get going."


	11. Chapter 11

It went without saying for Johann Metzger that he shouldn't walk on his injured leg; he figured that if he refrained from damaging it further now, there was a chance that he could preserve some of his mobility later. So he lay on the ground by the quelled campfire and waited for his allies to arrive.

But damn did his leg ever hurt.

Wincing, he looked to the stars that betrayed him and cursed the name of Robert Bischoff.

The lap dogs were the first to arrive, scouts in the hierarchy of the pack, hanging around the edge of the clearing. Though they were conditioned not to harm their handlers, Metzger made sure he came off as non-threatening as he could manage; he recalled the accidents involving the pack in the early stages of the program. Eventually, the lap dogs moved forward and surrounded him in a ring of panting canines, followed by the hounds, and bookended by the shepherds and Dobermans.

The truth was that none of the scientists involved with Project Höllenhund knew why the electrode mesh implanted into their brains worked the way it did, uniting them into a single being with the alpha male at their head; it just did.

And it could offer a distinct advantage in the battlefield if they actually managed to find a way to make it work reliably.

A tall man strode out of the forest, rifle slung casually off his shoulder. "I told you that you aren't cut out for field work, Metzger," he spoke in his native German. He crouched to examine Metzger's knee.

Metzger grimaced, replying with the same regional dialect. "How was supposed to know that Bischoff is psychic?"

"Bischoff? Isn't that the guy at the ministry who approved the project?"

"Yes, Doktor Robert Bischoff. And he's a traitor. How many bloodhounds do you have?"

"I have four." The tall man hunted the clearing for branches suitable enough to be used as a splint for Metzger's leg, which he helped set. "What do you need them for?"

"I want you to gather them and have them sniff that pile of blankets over there," said Metzger. "Then I want you to get the truck ready. We're heading to Rostock."

"That must be it!" Sofie shouted over the roar of the truck's diesel engine. "It's the only Spain-flagged vessel in port."

Sofie had been right. Driving a German Army truck around the port city of Rostock at night had drawn absolutely no official notice. They were but one truck of many, though probably the only one with Jewish orphans concealed under tarps in the truck bed.

Robert pulled the truck over and shut off the engine. They were about fifty yards from the pier leading to the Spanish vessel. At the foot of the pier were two burly men, trying to conceal their interest in them, playing cards with a crate acting as their table.

Sofie pulled the bulky medical bag out from behind the seat. "Roll up your sleeve. I'm going to give you another shot of penicillin. You're responding so well, it'd be a shame if you relapsed when it wears off."

Robert complied, rolled up his sleeve and gave his arm to Sofie. "Where did you get your medical training?" he asked, curious.

Sofie smiled as she gave him the shot. "Self taught. I worked with orphans before the war. There's never a doctor around when you really need one."

Robert smiled at her initiative and originality, qualities he'd always admired. When she withdrew the needle from his arm, he gently reached up and cupped her cheek, captured her lips with his.

"Winning you over, am I?" Sofie said when the kiss was over, and she regained her breath. She twined her fingers with his.

"You won me over with the hug when we first met. The rest is just details," Robert replied.

Sofie gave him an adoring look. Then she tucked Metzger's pistol into her waistband and concealed it under her sweater. "All right. I'll go talk to the guards."

The guards tensed at Sofie's approach, halting their card playing. She made sure to keep her hands where they could see them and didn't make any sudden movements. When she was within earshot, she gave the code phrase, wondering if it was Sam Weiss who thought it up.

"The spotted whale flies backwards," she said tentatively in decent Spanish.

The burly man with the beard and wool cap replied. "It's a lovely night for kayaking."

The other man, rat-like and wiry, spoke up with a distinctive accent. "You're early."

Sofie frowned and switched to English. "And you're Scottish. I thought you'd be Spaniards."

The burly man laughed, speaking with an English accent. "Just a flag of convenience, miss. A ship with a British flag would be noticed in a German port in no time. Herve – our cook – is the only Spaniard on the crew."

He stepped forward and offered his hand. "I'm Wainwright. The surly one is Dunning. And I have to say, your English is impeccable."

Sofie shook the offered hand. "Sofie. I'm sorry we're early, but our driver was a plant. We need to get under way as soon as possible."

Dunning, the surly one, swore under his breath and stood up. "I'll let a fire under 'em." He sprinted down the pier.

Wainwright scratched his nose nervously. "I'm afraid it will be awhile. We're in the middle of loading cargo. Once that's done, we can load the kids and leave. Can't draw attention, you know."

"All right. I'll go wait back in the truck with my associate. Let us know when we can start boarding."

Sofie walked back to the truck, giving the anxious Robert a thumbs up before checking on the children in the truck bed. Most of them were sleeping; the oldest boy was keeping a careful eye on them. She returned to the truck cab, slid onto the seat beside Robert, who immediately put his strong arm around her shoulders.

"Catholic?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Lutheran. Does that matter?"

"Not to me," he replied. "But I may have to convert if ever we get married."

Sofie marvelled that the topic of marriage had come up a mere two days after having met this man; but somehow, it felt completely right.

"Let's save that discussion until we get out of Germany," she replied. She settled her back against Robert's broad chest and they both settled in for a much-needed nap.

Robert snapped out of his doze, the distant baying of hounds interrupting his slumber. Sofie came awake slower, squinting at the early morning sunlight.

"Robert?" she asked drowsily. He touched his fingers to her lips, asking for silence.

He listened.

The baying hadn't been a dream.

Robert suddenly felt ice cold, his mind's eye shifting back to black and white pictures of mutilated Russian P.O.W's. He groped under the seat, found an SMG and put it on Sofie's lap. He groped again, found the other SMG, removed the magazine and gave that to her as well.

"Get the children loaded onto the ship," he told her,."I'll join you as soon as I can. No time to explain."

She looked like she was about to object, but he ignored her and got out of the truck, sprinting for the adjacent pier. His hand reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and with relief he felt the cold, bulbous form of the second grenade he'd taken from the guard at the lab.

When the bloodhounds smelled him on the salty winds blowing off the bay, they howled and gave chase, the rest of the pack moving in unison. That was where the gestalt nature of the pack exhibited one of its disadvantages – it was slowed down by the Dachshunds waddling along, no matter how badly the bloodhounds wanted to catch up with their quarry, and the shepherds and Dobermanns wanted to tear it apart.

Robert was easily able to reach the end of the adjacent pier, though he gasped and coughed for breath. He stopped and looked over at the Spanish ship, sucking wind, and could see Sofie marching a line of children up a gangplank.

Even if his half-assed, spur of the moment plan failed, he figured it would serve as some measure of penance for the murders he'd committed in the past two days; perhaps, he thought, it would be enough to repay the debt in full.

Behind him, he heard the click and clatter of dog's claws on the wooden planks of the pier. Knowing he had to time his moves just right, he turned to face them, then stripped off his jacket, his hand in the pocket that held the grenade.

Just before they reached him, he pulled the pin on the grenade, threw the jacket down and leaped for the water. The dogs, controlled by the bloodhounds, lunged forward and seized the jacket, tearing it apart among themselves in seconds.

When he hit the ice cold water of the bay, he realized it could have been a fatal mistake. True, he'd been an Olympic contender once, but he was also recovering from pneumonia, and the glacial waters numbed his mind.

Underwater, he felt - rather than heard - the grenade explode. He saw the shower of dog bits hit the water from below; when he came to his senses, he breached the surface and paddled for the ship, wheezing with every stroke.

Robert hit the wall halfway to the ship, and every movement became sheer agony, but he kept on braving the expanse regardless. Dimly, he became aware of a rope ladder lowered from the bow of the ship. He was barely able to reach the ladder, and when he finally did, it took Herculean effort to hold on as the crew above hauled him to the deck, seeing as he no longer had the strength to climb it.

His wet clothing was promptly stripped off and he was wrapped in thick wool blankets before being carried down below by strong hands. He soon found himself sitting on a cot somewhere, with Sofie at his side. She shoved a mug of hot coffee into his hands.

"T-told you I'd see you soon," he said to her, his words barely audible over his chattering teeth.


	12. Chapter 12

It was just before dusk, and Olivia was about to pull into a parking spot in front of the warehouse owned by Doernitz Industries – the one Walter had suggested was the most likely location for Metzger's secret lab – when Peter interrupted her.

"Drive right past," he said in an 'I'll explain later' tone of voice.

She took his advice, driving past that warehouse and parking at the next one.

"What did you see, Peter?" she asked after switching off the ignition.

"Security cameras," he said. "They've got the front door covered, and probably the others as well."

Olivia's phone buzzed and she put it to her ear. "Dunham!"

"This is Broyles. I've got the search warrant, but there was an accident on the expressway. I'm going to be late getting to you. Hold off on the search until I get there with backup."

"All right, sir; Peter and I will stand by." She hung up, then addressed Peter. "Broyles is going to be late."

Peter fidgeted nervously for a minute or two; waiting was not his strongest suit.

"No reason we can't scout the area, right?" Peter got out of the vehicle, walked around to her side. "I'm gonna go do some dumpster diving. Care to join?"

"You sure know what a girl's idea of fun is," Olivia quipped.

She got out of the SUV and followed Peter down the alley between the warehouses. At the far corner they found a cluster of dumpsters, which Peter wordlessly opened, one by one, examining the contents. When he reached the last dumpster and looked inside, he gave a worried expression.

"Hmmm..."

"What is it?" Olivia asked. "Body parts?"

"No, worse," he replied. "Clothing. Take a look."

Olivia looked into the dumpster and saw a large pile of clothing, consisting primarily of jackets, shirts and pants. "So? It's a dumpster. And this is a low rent part of town."

"Yeah, but in this part of town, people take clothing out of dumpsters; they don't put them in."

"Good point," she conceded.

Olivia pondered the situation and considered that Peter usually had good instincts about such things, having been abducted himself a few times before. She pulled out her phone and called Broyles, while Peter looked around the corner of the building.

"Agent Broyles? This is Dunham. Sir, we have reason to believe that someone may have been abducted by Metzger. I think we need to search the warehouse, immediately. Will you be here soon?"

She heard her superior sigh. "No, I'm afraid not. This accident has got traffic snarled up for miles. I'll leave it to your discretion. But if you do go in, be careful. I don't think we can get there faster than another half hour."

"All right, sir. I think it's important we go in now. Get here as soon as you can."

Olivia returned her phone to her pocket and drew her gun, nodded at Peter.

"Why do you call Broyles sir? You're not in the military..."

Olivia gave him her now is not the time look, making him chuckle.

Peter hooked a thumb toward the back of the alley. "As luck would have it, there's a van pulled into the loading dock out back. I think we can get inside there."

Olivia nodded, then rounded the corner and moved rapidly toward the loading dock, Peter following closely behind. She looked in the back of the van, found it empty save for a pile of discarded clothing.

Seeing this, Peter gave her a self-satisfied grin, mouthing an I told you so with a smug

Olivia ignored him, leading the way into the warehouse proper. Past the door in the loading dock, they found a short corridor. It had the antiseptic smell of a hospital; clearly, the facility was being used for some sort of medical purpose.

As they moved down the corridor, they became aware of noises – beeps at regular intervals, low muttering, a droning noise – that grew louder as they approached the door at the end of the corridor.

When Olivia reached the door, she looked through the small window placed about head height, and she then knew they had the right place.

She cocked her head toward the door, indicating that Peter should open it for her. He nodded, grabbed the handle. Olivia wordlessly counted down from three, then burst through the door, gun at the ready, after Peter pulled it ajar.

"Freeze! FBI!"

Erwin Metzger, his bulk in full surgical scrubs, sat in an office chair behind a computer console, facing towards a surgical chair in the middle of the room. In the chair lay an unconscious man, naked save for the sheet that covered him. The man's arms and legs were securely restrained by straps. The man was bald – recently shaven, actually, to judge by the pile of hair that lay on the floor.

Dominating the room was the surgical robot. It crouched over the man's upper body like a white, mechanical praying mantis stalking a fly.

Metzger moved, pressing a key on the keyboard in front of him, and the robot began sawing into the man's skull, accompanied by a fine mist of blood. Then he ran for the door, moving far faster than his obese body would suggest he could.

Oliva took aim, but held her fire when she realized the shot would hit the robotic equipment instead of Metzger.

"Peter!" yelled Olivia.

Peter crossed the room and reached the console in three strides. He somehow stopped the surgical robot within thirty seconds, which left the unconscious victim with a fine red gash that carefully followed the contour of half of his skull. The robot then stowed its instruments, washing the bone-saw clean with a spray of water.

Peter started shrugging into surgical apparel, donning an apron, gloves, a mask and a cap.

"Olivia, go after Metzger!" he exclaimed. "I can handle this!"

Olivia looked at him as if he were insane.

"I once resuscitated a woman with a MacGuyver-ed defibrillator; I can at least keep this guy alive until help arrives."

After a moment's consideration, Olivia nodded, making for the door that Metzger had used. She heard Peter ask her to be careful as she left the surgery room.

She found herself in another long, brightly lit corridor, this one with several doors opening to either side. Olivia proceeded carefully, knowing to check each door for activity before proceeding to the next. When she reached the third door down, Metzger lunged into the corridor after she kicked the door in. She fired, the bullet grazing Metzger's left thigh. He batted aside her gun arm, then pushed her hard, and she literally flew across the width of the corridor, hitting her back against the wall opposite the door. Her pistol whirled down the corridor, clattering on the tile floor.

Olivia dimly perceived that a black and tan shape, about waist-high, emerged into the corridor from behind Metzger and darted back the way she had come.

Chuckles!

She tried to yell a warning to Peter, but Metzger seized her by her arms, and for the first time since childhood, she was picked up and slammed to the ground by a man.

She couldn't worry about Peter anymore. She was fighting for her life.

As Metzger's thick hands closed around her throat, Olivia attempted to buck him off. She was fit, but not strong enough to bridge a three hundred pound man. She tried to pull him into an elbow strike to the head, but he straightened his arms and squeezed her throat tighter. Stars started to dance at the edge of her vision, and she knew it wouldn't be long until she passed out. Desperate, she growled like an animal and started slamming hook punches into his sides, only succeeding in making his blubber jiggle.

A ways down the corridor, she saw a familiar man, crouched, with dark hair and brown eyes, wearing standard FBI issue body armor.

"Livvy, if you want to save Peter, you have to do what I told you," Charlie said.

Great, I'm hallucinating, again, she thought.

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, you're hallucinating. Deal with it."

Great. Now I've got sarcastic hallucinations.

"Livvy, remember that day we had on the mats," he urged. "Remember what I taught you. What does someone with his hands around your throat want?"

"Control!" she replied by rote; though in actuality, it sounded more like a garbled mess.

Cnnntrlalluh!

"Don't give him that control over you, kiddo. Eyes, ears, throat, balls; do whatever you gotta do."

Oliva used the last ounce of strength she had left. She slammed a hard right hook into Metzger's belly while bringing her left arm up between them and slamming it down on his forearms, just below the crease of his elbows. Just as Charlie had taught her, this snapped Metzger's head forward, lifting his chin up, and she punched him hard, in the throat. A muffled crack of something breaking free resounded – cartilage, she thought – and Metzger gagged, hands reflexively going to his throat. Since he no longer cared about choking her to death, she was able to grab his wrist and elbow and lever him off of her; she had his hands cuffed behind his back in an instant. She then grabbed her gun and ran down the corridor, leaving Metzger choking on the floor.

Olivia burst into the operating room at a full run. The huge Rottweiler was crouched on top of Peter, his left arm in the dog's mouth. The dog moved in jerks and lunges, trying to find the leverage to tear the defending arm off, while Peter rained blows on it with his off hand.

She aimed her pistol carefully, lining the sights up between the dog's ears, and fired, blowing the top of the dogs skull off, showering Peter with even more gore. The dog whimpered, then collapsed onto the floor.

"Peter!" she gasped. "Your arm!"

Peter shook his head, dazed, clutching his shredded limb above the elbow and trying to staunch the flow of blood by digging his thumb into the artery. He smirked at her.

"Did I ever tell you I was a Boy Scout?"

Olivia looked at him as if he'd lost his mind, then realization hit her and she smiled despite the gravity of the situation. "Be prepared?"

He nodded. "Zip ties, my back pocket. Grab one for me. Tourniquet." He seemed to be trying to grimace away the pain.

Olivia put her gun back in its holster and obliged. She dropped to her knees beside him, reaching around to his back jeans pocket, where her fingers found a bundle of plastic ties. She grabbed two and held them up for him to see.

"Good. Wrap them around my arm about an inch above the elbow and pull it really tight."

She followed his instructions, and the flow of blood from his forearm diminished to a faint trickle.

Peter sat up, hooking his good arm around her shoulder, and she supported him as both rose to their feet.

Broyles then burst into the room, pistol drawn, followed by three more agents; he eased himself as he saw that Olivia and Peter were fine.

"Just in time, sir," she said with a smirk, causing Broyles to shake his head as he called for medical assistance in his walkie-talkie.


	13. Chapter 13

Robert Bischoff stood in an empty lecture hall at Cambridge University, chalk in hand, scribbling equations on the board before him as fast he could solve them.

He was the very picture of an obsessed professor in his tweeds, sweater and bow tie.

He had been investing about an hour a day in this side project of his, trying to figure out the mechanics of Fedora Man's light-based weapon. Though shot by the thing six months ago, Robert still occasionally felt twinges in his chest when he took a deep breath.

He sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, unknowingly leaving a streak of white chalk. Somewhere deep inside, he felt an urge for a cigarette, but he had quit six months ago and Sofie would surely kill him if she smelled tobacco on his breath.

Things hadn't quite gone as he'd expected them on their leaving Germany. For one thing, the eternal problems of the refugee had beset them immediately. No money, no papers, no clothes, and no place to stay. That both of them could speak English, Sofie better than he, came as a miraculous advantage. It was arduous in the beginning, with Sofie getting a job as a nurse and Robert tutoring privileged brats in math.

That is, until the letter of recommendation from Professor Albert Einstein had come through.

He now occupied his time as a guest lecturer in physics, and their meager but steady income had allowed them to rent a small house in town. To the rest of Cambridge, they were the Bischoffs, Germans who had escaped the tyranny of their homeland. Although, technically speaking, they weren't married yet; they had promised each other to formalize their union only when they had finally immigrated to the United States.

"Robert Bischoff," said the familiar voice, words echoing from behind him. "How are you, Professor?"

Professor Bischoff had been so engrossed in his calculations that he hadn't heard anyone come into the hall. He turned to see John Mosley striding down the aisle, wearing an American Army officer's uniform and a broad smile. Robert put the chalk down and stepped down from the stage to shake his hand.

John gestured towards his head. "Uh... you have a little chalk in your hair."

Robert brushed absently at his hair, accidentally adding a little more chalk. John smiled and gave up.

"John! It's good to see you again," Robert said. "I was just about to leave for home. Would you like to join Sofie and I for dinner?"

"I'd love to, but I don't have the time," replied Mosley. "I just happened to be passing through, so I wanted to stop by and say hello."

"Have you recovered the cylinder?" Robert asked.

"As a matter of fact, that's where I'm headed right now," John sighed. "Sometimes I think I'll be after that thing until the day I die. But with the war winding down, finding it is less urgent, I suppose." John looked at the chalkboard curiously. "What are you working on now?"

Robert gestured at the board. "That? Oh, I'm trying to figure out how the gun that man shot us with works. I'm having about as much luck as you are finding the cylinder."

"... Tesla," John muttered. "You know, I heard that Nicola Tesla was working on something like that. Maybe you should look into it when you get to the States."

Robert nodded. "I will. Thank you."

John offered his hand again. "Well Robert, I don't want to overstay my welcome. Give Sofie my regards."

Robert shook the offered hand and watched his friend leave the auditorium, silently saying a prayer for his safety. Then he glanced at his watch, and, realizing that he was late for dinner, grabbed his coat and left.

In his haste to leave, however, Robert hadn't noticed the bald, suited man that had been sitting in the far left corner of the auditorium for several minutes.

After the scientist had exited the room, the man stood up, walked down the aisle and up onto the stage. He took out a camera, no bigger than a matchbook, and snapped a picture of the chalkboard before wiping the blackboard clean with an eraser and making his own way out of the chamber.

Robert reached their small house on foot, just before sundown. He smiled at the sight of the light emanating from the kitchen, and hoped Sofie wouldn't be too upset at his tardiness.

He swept in through the front door, deposited his coat on the nearest chair in the living room and entered the kitchen.

"Hello, dearest," he said, gathering Sofie into his arms and giving her a sweet kiss on the cheek.

She'd changed out of the nurses uniform he'd seen her in that morning into a blue print dress that matched her eyes.

"Robert," she purred his name. "There is mail for you from the States. You'll be happy to know I restrained myself and didn't open it this time."

They spoke English at home as a way of getting used to casually using their adopted countries native tongue. Robert found it to be an excellent idea, as he needed the practice more than her; and it irked him that couldn't seem to rid himself of his prominent German accent.

He smiled and kissed her again, then left the kitchen for the living room, talking over his shoulder.

"John Mosley came to see me today." He found the mail in question on the mantle, a large brown envelope. He tore it open.

"And you didn't bring him home?" she called from the kitchen.

"He had other business to attend to," Robert replied.

Robert looked at the papers, reading quickly. "Sofie, come here! Our papers have come through."

Sofie appeared at his side, slipping her arm through his. Robert frowned at a typed letter. "They spelled our names wrong. Robert and Sophie Bishop?"

Sofie giggled. "Easier for Americans to pronounce. I've heard of that happening."

"Robert Bishop. It'll get shortened to Bob Bishop," Robert muttered in feigned dread.

"Sophie Bishop... Sophie Bishop... It has a ring to it. I like it," she concluded.

"I don't want to be Bob Bishop," Robert said morosely.

"You'll always be Robert to me," Sofie said.

Robert smiled at her and kissed her again. Then he clasped her hand in his, slipped his arm around her waist and they waltzed elegantly across their quaint living room, each of them thinking of the long, strange journey they'd taken to get there.

"I can't wait," said Robert. "We're finally going to America!"


	14. Chapter 14

The harried ER intern's footsteps had betrayed his presence before he had even arrived. Wired, he burst into the small, curtained examination space; it was clear through his demeanor that his mind was elsewhere.

"Agent Dunham?"

He stood on one foot, then the other. She wondered if he was late for a hot date.

At Olivia's nod, he waved a stack of x-ray films in the air. "You'll be alright. Nothing broken. The bruising is going to be pretty bad, though. I'm going to write you a scrip for pain so you can sleep..."

He produced his scrip pad and started scribbling. She didn't tell him that her bottle of Bushmills would do just as well, as far as sleep was concerned. Nonetheless, she dutifully accepted the page he tore, which he stuffed into her hands. He then darted from the room before she could ask about Peter.

She was halfway through getting dressed – at the most embarrassing step, to be precise - when Broyles walked in. Upon registering the sight, he backed out from the curtain without a word and waited politely.

"Okay, sir."

At her bidding, he stepped back in, face as impassive as ever.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I just saw Peter. He's going to be okay. They're going to release him soon. The victim is stable and wants to personally thank both of you when you're ready."

Olivia pulled her boots on, shrugged into her coat, and winced. "Metzger?" she inquired.

"Metzger lived. He's in custody downtown, but I 'm afraid he's not going to be talking for a while." They both smirked a little at that. "The dogs will all have to be put down, unfortunately. I'm having Metzger's notes on the procedure he used sent to the lab so Dr. Bishop can have a look at it. I'm also giving you and Peter a week off."

Olivia opened her mouth to object, but a twinge of pain in her left shoulder made her reconsider her contention. Peter would definitely need the time off to recover; and if she went back to work immediately, Peter would be forced to as well. Besides, she could tell she was going to be suffering herself tomorrow. What was the sense in not taking it easy for a few days?

She nodded, surprising her superior, who was, judging by his expression, prepared for an argument.

"...Good. I had Astrid take Dr. Bishop home," Broyles continued. "Do you want me to wait, or..."

Olivia shook her head. "No. I'll drive Peter home myself."

Broyles nodded, then turned before stopping himself at the edge of the curtained enclosure. "Good work, Dunham. And send Peter my congratulations as well. I'll be seeing you in a week."

Olivia had been numbing her ass in a hard plastic chair in the lobby of the ER for about half an hour before Peter emerged from the bowels of the building.

He looked awful.

Pale, his left arm in a sling, he walked with a languid unsteadiness that told her they'd given him a tranquilizer that hadn't worn off yet.

But he was himself enough to flirt with the pretty nurse he was leaning on.

That actually made Olivia smile in relief. She stood up to greet him, taking his good arm from the nurse to steady him.

"Hey!" she said.

"Hey," Peter responded, giving her a broad, genuine smile.

The nurse shot her a dirty look before returning to her duties. Olivia couldn't resist asking when she was out of earshot.

"Did you get her number?"

Peter glanced back at the nurse, then avoided Olivia's eyes. "Yeah."

"So what did the doctors tell you?" Olivia asked, helping Peter into his jacket.

Peter reached into her physical space, and she let him. He gently cupped her chin and turned her head one way, then the other, examining the bruises Metzger had left on her neck.

"Peter..." she growled. "I'm fine. What about you?"

He gestured with his good arm to his other one. "Thirty stitches. Chuckles thought I was a chew toy. I also lost a pint or so of blood, so they kindly topped me off." Olivia started to guide him toward the door, through the parking lot beyond. Peter frowned. "I also get to experience the joy of rabies shots for the next few weeks."

"Rabies?" Olivia interjected. "The dog had rabies?"

Peter shook his head. "It's just a precaution."

He held up a crumpled piece of stationary as she helped him into the Navigator's passenger seat. "Pain med prescription; though I think Walter probably has better stuff at home."

She hurried around the front of the SUV, then got in the driver's seat. "What else?" she pressed, sensing he was hiding something.

He hesitated. "I have an appointment with a neurologist tomorrow."

"Neurologist?" Olivia echoed. Peter didn't add any additional details.

There was silence from the passenger side as she pulled the Navigator out of the hospital parking lot and headed toward the Bishop household. Olivia wanted to say something more, but Peter wasn't giving her the opportunity; he just stared out the window at the night.

Then, as they were halfway to the Bishop house, Peter suddenly burst into a flurry of motion worthy of a Tasmanian Devil cartoon.

"Peter, what's wrong?" she asked, alarmed.

"It itches!" he responded, finally getting his arm out of the sling and turning on the overhead light.

"Well...don't scratch it!" Olivia responded lamely.

"Yes, mother," he responded, with more warmth than sarcasm.

Peter held his injured left arm up to the light, moved it around slowly so he could examine it. Forced to keep one eye on the road, Olivia couldn't make out many details, but she got the impression that his arm was held together by stitches and clotted blood, rather than bones and ligaments.

Her next glance caused her to see something that made her feel as she'd taken a hook punch to the gut.

A tremor.

Peter's little and ring finger had a faint tremor, like a lazy hummingbird's wings – barely noticeable.

He saw her look but said nothing. He returned his attention to his hands. With masterful finesse, he pulled a silver coin from the nether. It glinted in the moonlight as he rolled it across the knuckles of his right hand, passed it to his left...and dropped it. He caught it with his right before it hit the floor, tried the same trick again, only to be met with identical results. He sighed, slipped the coin back into his pocket and looked out the window, clenching his jaw.

Olivia returned her attention to the road in front of them. She thought of Peter and Ella playing the piano together, and felt a lump form in her throat. She desperately wanted to see that again. When she pulled into the Bishops driveway, she caught Peter's shoulder before he could get out of the SUV.

"So, what time do I pick you up for your neurologist appointment?" she asked, her tone telling him that this wasn't negotiable.

Peter looked into her eyes, blue gazing into green, then smiled.

"Nine o'clock would be good."

He pressed a quick kiss to her hand on his shoulder. Then he was gone, walking up the steps to the old house he shared with his father.

Olivia sped homeward in her Navigator, turning on the radio, which was already tuned to the local oldies station, and her vision blurred with tears when Etta James started singing _Someone to Watch Over Me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, Uroboros75, and to my friends at the TWOP Fringe boards for their encouragement.


End file.
